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Chapter 11: Making Room

Posted in Book One, Worlds End, Seed Mother, tagged , , , , , on June 29, 2017| Leave a Comment »

World’s End
Book One of The Seed Mother

Chapter Eleven: Making Room

Within a week after the Langstons arrived, more people, livestock, and even house pets began to trickle in, and as Ellen had predicted, room had to be made and plans altered again and again.

With the arrival of help and more temperate weather, Moira rescinded her decision to free all the livestock, and everyone but the young colts seemed relieved to be back in their pens. The poultry had been especially hard hit by predation and the village was down to just three hens and a single rooster, plus a single hen turkey from each of the turkey breeds and no rooster from either. But each of those turkey hens had apparently mated, both with their absent mates and evidently with a wild turkey male as well, for after they were penned, they nested and began producing some very odd-looking chicks along with some who looked quite ordinary. A mystery but not one they’d question, since the flock was now up from two to sixteen. The chickens had also been busy, each hatching out a brood of half a dozen or more. Not all of those lived, of course, but the chickens from the original flock numbered well over a dozen now, and the birds would likely nest again before fall. In addition, a motley little flock of four migrant chickens, including a brown leghorn hen, two bantam hens, and a bantam cross rooster, all of them ragged and some injured, stumbled into the village late one day, the rooster answering the call of the resident male. After some introductory tussles, they were welcomed into the flock, and the gene pool was further enhanced.

Likewise, a pregnant Holstein cow, then two Angus heifers and a bull calf, and then six rangy beef cattle of questionable lineage showed up at the lower gate, plainly asking for shelter and a little graze. They, too, showed signs of being worried by some kind of predatory animal and so were let into the gate of the harvested oat field and contented themselves tidying things up. Most of the Tamworth hogs returned, followed by a meek little Berkshire gilt, all of them polite and looking for a little corn. They trotted merrily into their enclosure, following a rattling grain can, and soon were happily settled.

One morning when she left her apartment, a small gray cat with golden eyes was sitting at Moira’s door. She warned it about the dogs but it marched inside, stood all its hairs on end, smartly slapped each puppy on the nose as it approached, wove its way around Sheba’s legs and purred, and made itself at home. Moira saw it was a girl and named it Stella. So, slowly but steadily, the village began to fill.

The arriving humans, with few exceptions, seemed to have been selected and sent by Glen. Most of them showed up holding hand-drawn maps on scraps of paper, and most seemed to understand the still unwritten rules of order. By the time Glen himself finally came home, he’d sent more than a dozen on ahead. In addition to their personal effects, each of them brought items of food, tools, medical supplies, reference books, and other salvaged and irreplaceable commodities from the world outside, and each presented those things as their entry fee. Each seemed eager to declare an open mind and religious tolerance among their qualifications for admittance. Obviously Glen had given them a talking to before drawing his maps. With every arrival, new skills and talents came with them.

First down the lower road by the river came Toby Stoffer, an organic farmer and orchardist who was carrying with him bundles of fruit tree scions he’d salvaged from the wreckage of his nursery, and Rickard Mills, his husband, a landscape designer. The two of them arrived with some fanfare on a noisy all-terrain vehicle pulling a trailer. On it in addition to the tiny trees were tools, boxes and bags tightly packed, several jerry-cans of fuel, and a Maine coon cat named Edna. Edna immediately set to work in the barn. Rickard applied for a job.
”I recognize that my profession has gone extinct, darling,” he told Moira. “I’ll work at anything you’d like me to do. But I hope you don’t mind if I pretty things up a bit as I go along.”

“I think you’ll both be as happy here as we are happy to have you,” Moira said, and then, realizing her choice of words could be taken two ways, added, “I’m delighted you’re here. This place could use a facelift and we can certainly use the extra hands. You’ll have all the work you want.” The men chose as their residence the lower shed just up from the gate, once used for storing landscaping equipment. Those items were moved, with some reverence on the part of Rickard, to a larger open-fronted shed opposite the gate, and the former landscaping shed soon acquired a patio, a tiny kitchen, and an outdoor grill. Before long, it became a popular after-work destination for many village residents.

Toby offered himself as Ellen’s assistant in the garden and Rickard was soon put to work refitting the “demonstration” shops of the village as living quarters and some real shops. Evenings he spent digging, planting, pruning, and “prettying” the extensive grounds. Soon Ellen handed over the food gardens and a growing orchard to Toby and devoted herself entirely to the medicinal herbs, and Rickard’s designs went far beyond prettying. Within days, he began approaching Moira with drawings he’d made on a small sketch pad filled with ideas for expanding the food gardens, developing more home sites, and creating planned public areas. As for the structure of the village’s common area including Main Street, he said, all that was lacking was sufficient people to run the shops. That, he predicted, would in all likelihood, take care of itself. And it did.

Next to arrive was Eldon Case, a 40-year-old farmer from just up the river from the Langston farm. He’d survived the winter but had watched his wife and father succumb to the cold and dark and terror that the nightmare changes had brought. He came in riding a tall bay mule, leading a donkey packed with his belongings, and driving before him a Jersey cow and calf. Riding behind him on the mule was his mother, Marianne Case. Running alongside and helping guide the cattle was a little cattle dog answering to “Burt.”

A little behind them that day came a lone woman driving a horse before a small buckboard wagon loaded with unknown items under a tarp. Her progress was tentative and Moira wondered why – until she recognized her.

“Oh my God it’s Helen!” she exclaimed, and went racing down the road, startling the Cases’ animals. “Sorry,” she called as she slowed so as not to startle the horse next in line. “Oh, Helen, I’m so glad you’re alive. I had so hoped that someone from the staff was out there and would eventually come in. Steven’s here.” As Helen pulled the wagon to a stop, Moira climbed aboard and threw her arms around the older woman. Helen Walker had been the manager and chief cook for the museum’s demonstration kitchen, had gone off with the rest for the Thanksgiving holiday and had never returned – until now.

Moira took Helen’s hand in both of hers and said “How are you? Really.”

“Well, we had a tight house and enough to eat and we just holed up and waited for the storm to pass,” Helen said. We only live about five miles away, but we were afraid to come down here, afraid of what we’d find and afraid we couldn’t get here and back. The bridge up there is out, you know. Then Nathan took sick about a month back, and, well, your man got there just about in time to help me bury him. He said you were OK and you’d have room for me. I sure hope you do.”

Moira gave her hand a shake. “Are you kidding? I’d take you in if I had to throw somebody else out. Now come on, let’s get you inside and get somebody to tend to your horse. We’ll get the wagon unloaded when we’ve settled on where to put you.”

Meanwhile, Toby and Steven were quizzing Eldon. Soon they knew he had grown up on his family’s farm but had worked in town as a welder, carpenter, and sometimes mechanic, and he had an abundance of manual skills to offer. He was at once befriended by Steven and offered charge of the tool room at the Center. He made his living quarters in the smaller of the barn’s two tack rooms and took his meals with the Langstons. Mrs. Case settled in one of the farmhouse’s upstairs bedrooms and offered to help in the kitchen and garden, although she soon began eyeing one of the little shops and mentioned she was a competent seamstress. When Ellen told her of the stored bolts of cloth, she began planning her new career. She and John Langston became immediate friends when Marianne confessed she played piano and John began to acquaint her with his small squeeze box accordion. Helen moved into the space up the hill that had been the dressing room for the performers, right next door to her beloved kitchen. The small population had already been eating Helen’s cooking from the meals stored in the freezer, but they soon discovered the fresh version was even better.

Learning of potential resources awaiting them at the abandoned farms upriver, Rick and Toby spent a can of their precious fuel on multiple trips hauling tools, materials, and supplies back to the village. Moira made sure they were both armed, but apparently the noise of the little four-wheeler was enough to keep the feral and vicious “wee little piggies” at bay.

Two days from the opposite direction down the road came the two Riggs sisters, 49-year-old Reatha and 40-year-old Ruthie, whose farm was downriver. They had not been sent by Glen. They had been living on their parents’ farm downstream from the Park for several years but had kept to themselves. They had dared the trip upriver after hearing, faintly, the noise from Toby and Rick’s ATV. It was the first human-made sound they’d heard since the “Changes,” they said, and they were afraid it might be the last. They’d come in a small, two-wheeled horse-drawn cart, saying they’d left all their worldly belongings behind in the care of the neighbors who’d joined them over the winter and who had stayed behind to do the milking. They could go fetch them if they could all please stay, they pleaded with tremulous voices, offering up their list of useful skills. They were schoolteachers but also dairy farmers, cheese-makers, and beekeepers, they said. They could, with help, bring with them as many as a dozen hives and ten head of Guernsey cattle, all good milkers. It was almost too good a gift and would strain the ability of the existing facilities both to house and to feed just the animals, not to mention another batch of new two-legged arrivals to consider as well, including that other family yet unseen. It was time to consider a larger plan.

Moira asked the sisters to return home and bring everyone back the next day right after the morning milking so all could attend a town meeting. She proposed a discussion to work out the details of how this larger village might proceed. The sisters happily agreed, and were invited to stay for lunch and beyond to meet the rest of the village residents before returning home. Tom and Toby on horseback escorted them back to their farm and returned home just before full dark.

The meeting was set for 10 a.m., but preparations had been underway since dawn, when Ellen, Helen, and Marianne began work next door in the kitchen, turning the regular morning meal into a brunch-style buffet more suited to the gathering. Moira also enlisted Steven and Tom to make some adjustments to the room that had been the museum’s theater. The addition of a long folding table down front with chairs behind it where the village’s unofficial leaders would sit made the space perfect for the meeting. They had also added, at Ellen’s suggestion, another long table at the back to hold all that food and drink. The theater at the former visitors’ center, which could seat up to 120 people, had seemed too large, but was still the best site for this meeting, as it was comfortable, and everyone could be seen and heard.

As the meeting time approached, people began strolling up the hill in what was becoming a festive mood. Steven’s daughter Sarah had recovered her strength enough that she and Joey were now looking after Ted Langston, who was still weak and was having a hard time building back his strength. As the meeting approached, and with help from Eldon, they hitched one of the trained Morgan mares to a flat-bedded farm wagon, enlisted “Grandpa John” Langston as wagon master, and offered a ride up the hill for Ted and anyone else who wished it. Ted hesitated, then agreed to ride and keep his grandfather company. The Riggs sisters said they’d like a wagon ride, too. Toby and Rick, who had already started up the hill, came walking up alongside the shy Lettie, the girl who’d taken refuge with the Langstons. Each of the men took an arm, and walked with her up the hill, chatting quietly in the bright morning, as the sun filled the shaded upper hollow. Above them, they could hear children laughing. Tom Langston and his mother were walking quietly behind them.

“You know,” said Toby, “if this is going to be the end of the world, I think we could have done a whole lot worse, don’t you?” He gave Lettie’s arm a squeeze. He’d heard the story of the loss of her family and was careful not to be flippant. 
She smiled a small smile, then took a deep breath and seemed to breathe in the beauty of the day. Her smile grew larger. “It could be worse,” she agreed.

As others began to file into the center and find the theater, Rick pulled Moira aside and pressed for a serious discussion of setting up an ongoing and regular schedule of meetings where residents could be informed and educated and have input into how the growing village should be organized. She agreed to bring it up, but she said Rick would have to be in charge of presenting suggestions for a plan. He pulled out his notebook.

“I don’t suppose you’d have a larger piece of paper?” he said. He had changed from his usual jeans and landscaper’s apron and was wearing a thin cotton shirt and dove gray slacks. His graying blond hair was tied back at the neck. He looked every inch the landscape designer.
She directed him to the conference room where a presentation pad and easel were stored.

As he hurried away, Ellen, Helen and Marianne came parading up to the theater entrance carrying large trays of pastries and other finger foods which they arranged on the table at the back next to pitchers of iced herb tea, flasks of coffee and a random assortment of glasses and cups. People continued to stream in, and soon all were gathered, sipping and nibbling as the discussion began.

The first suggestion was that they find a suitable name for this structure they were in other than Visitors Center, and designate the theater as the town hall. But what should the entire facility be called? Joey raised his hand.“Why don’t we just call it the Keep, because that’s where you keep everything important?”

Everyone agreed it was short and descriptive enough, and the name was adopted without further conversation. Moira, who had assigned herself as host of the first meeting and was determined to keep her input to a minimum, shook her head as she served coffee to the small group, muttering something about how she hoped everyone realized that this made her the keeper.

Next, Rick arrived, set up the easel, and began to sketch out a plan using a dark marker. He began to explain his plan for how the village should be developed over time.

“We’re barely even a villagette here, Rick, not a real village,” Moira said in protest, but he pressed his point.

“Not yet, we’re not, but the more who arrive, the less there’ll be opportunity for changes. We don’t have enough room in this hollow to just let it grow like Topsy. We need an organized plan to make the best use of the space,” he insisted. “We already need a school. And soon we’ll need to add a church or two, I expect. And a community center, and an Inn, or at least a hostel, and…” She nodded, waved a hand in surrender, and agreed. From now on, she said, she would host weekly meetings here, where everyone could have a seat and a say, and everyone could voice their concerns and ideas, and listen to the concerns of others.

Realizing this meeting and the ones going forward would need some structure, Moira asked for items to go on an agenda, and nearly everyone had something to add. Clearly, people had been thinking about the future. Rick was still adding to his drawing, so she asked if he would yield the floor temporarily so other business could be taken up. He held up his hand with the marker to show he’d heard her, then continued drawing.

Eldon was first to speak but he had obviously been talking to Rick.

He stood and removed his green feed cap, revealing the tan line that stopped halfway up his forehead – a farmer’s tan. “Since it looks like we’re all gonna be here a while…” He paused, waiting for someone to disagree, but no one did. “…and I expect we’ll see some more show up before long…” Everyone nodded, so he went on. “We’d better be tryin’ to get as ready as we can, and as soon as we can. We’re sure not ready now, even though this place as it stands is a real blessing. But we’re going to need more rooms, more places under roof, more food, more …” he stopped, looking for the word.

“Structure,” said Steven, and Eldon nodded. Rick looked pointedly at Moira, who acknowledged him with a wry grin.

“I’m not saying I’m the one to do that, at least the planning part,” Eldon continued. “Now I can build things or take them apart. I know how things go together. But I’m not one to know where to put them. Lord, if you could see my place…” he looked at his mother, and tears sprang to his eyes. Then he turned to Rick. “I know you all did some foraging up there, and that’s fine. But you didn’t make a dent in what’s there. What I’m saying is, I’ve got lumber put away, and tools, and some more food stored, not much but some. We could take a crew and a couple wagons back up there, cause then I can build you some more little houses. And I think you ought to let me have the wood shop at the mill. I can get the wheel going and use that to get the saw going, and then we can make our own lumber. I think we’re gonna need all we can make.” He looked around. “That’s all I’ve got to say.”

Steven raised a hand, and Moira nodded to him.

“He’s right on all counts. We can’t do it all at once, of course, but I’ll be happy to work on that with Eldon, and I think he’s the logical one to take on things at the mill.” He turned to the man, who had taken his seat and put his cap back on. “I don’t mean we expect you to do it by yourself. We’ll get you some help down there every time we can.” He suddenly remembered himself and quickly turned to Moira. “That is, if that’s all right.”

“Let’s don’t stand on ceremony here,” Moira said. “If that’s what works, let’s do it. But I want to hear more of what Rick has to say about structure before we go much farther.” She turned to him, and he rose from his seat on the end of the front row. He had finished drawing and sat down to wait his turn. He looked suddenly young and almost elegant, Moira thought.

“Hello, dears,” he said, stepping back to the easel. He folded back the sheet where he’d been drawing to reveal an enlarged aerial photo of the museum grounds that he’d found in the conference room. “Forgive me, I’m such a ditherer, I just can’t work without visual aids, or I’ll just blather on and confuse everyone. I hope you don’t mind.” He nodded and rubbed his hands together as his audience mumbled what he took to be assent.

“Well,” he said, picking up a long wooden pointer. “Here is what we have now. And here is what I propose we do with it.” He turned the page back, to let them see the sketch again, then turned back to the photo.

“Let me explain,” he said, and everyone nodded. “Here at the mill dam is our electric power source. It’s limited, so it will have to be used judiciously. Maybe street lights, but that’s about all. So things that need to operate off that power – small industry, perhaps – will need to locate there, or nearby. Doesn’t have to be big, doesn’t have to be dirty. In fact, we shouldn’t allow it to be dirty.” He moved the pointer’s end across the pond to the mill itself.

“Now here’s our mechanical power source. It, too, could be retrofitted to produce some small bits of electricity. But the belts that run directly off the wheel will drive the sawmill and the cotton gin and some woodworking tools. All that in good time.”

The pointer moved again.

“Now, here we are down at the farmstead. We will need more housing immediately, yes. But as people work out where they want to live and what they want to do about that, they may well want to put their own houses in a location that suits them. What we need is somewhere to put the newcomers in the meantime. Because I’m nearly sure more are coming. I propose we take the old log building next to the mill that was the general store in pioneer times, and turn it into a distribution point for general stores, like nails and hand tools and such, that everyone will need and that we’ll need to keep track of. It needs a little work, but it’s a sound structure and we need a place in a central location to put things we use frequently. We can’t just go to the hardware store if we lose something. And we shouldn’t have to walk all the way up the hill to fetch a nail. We should probably move the smithy up here, too, so the means for making and repairing tools would be nearby.”

At that, Steven nodded. “Works for me,” he said

Then Rick pointed to the shops on the little street. “Now let’s look at downtown,” he said.

“This rather oversize building here, the one that’s almost finished.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “It was intended to be the general store. It’s perfect, but not for a grocery store. It’s a two-story structure, very sturdy. Now just imagine. If we were to put in some partitions, several upstairs and a few down, we could easily turn it into an inn for those newcomers who aren’t sure if they’ll stay or are just passing through, or we don’t have anywhere else to put them. And later, for those who want to stay and haven’t built yet, or can’t yet, the next thing to build would be a boarding house, or a bunkhouse, which we can put here, just down from the farmhouse to house single people, temporary workers or the like. That should get us through the next little while and use up what lumber we can get hold of. The shops downtown, we should only use to bed down people temporarily, because we’ll want actual businesses in there, as tradespeople become necessary.”

At that, Marianne Case’s hand went into the air. “Speaking of trades,” she said, “I know I’m out of turn, but if I had a sewing machine, I could use one of those to set up a shop to make clothing for people. Would you all be interested in that?”

Several nodded agreement and the crowd began talking together.

“Great idea. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Rick cautioned, pointing back to his drawing. “That’s wonderful, Marianne, and I think we’re going to find that kind of business very necessary and very soon. I think everyone who wants to try out a small business should just do it. With the understanding that for the foreseeable, it’s all going to be on the barter system, with all of us working as hard as we can and helping each other, just to get enough to keep us all.

“But I want you to look at this other drawing and consider how I’ve laid out these other, future parts. I wanted to allow for areas to be used as we need them, how we need them. I want you all to think about all this and tell me what you think works and what doesn’t. For instance.” He pulled a pencil from his pocket and made X marks on the map. “All these crosshatched areas should be converted into food gardens – not right this minute, but as soon as possible. Why? Because the soil here is very productive bottomland, it’s below the millpond so it will always have water, and it is close to all of us so we can pitch in when needed and give the crops the attention they need. We will likely not be having any lettuce trucked in from California very soon” His voice rang in the sudden silence. “Everything we eat we will have to grow or forage for. Fortunately, Moira has seeds for just about everything. But the distance between seeds and food is marked by toil and sweat. We should start immediately if we want to be getting fall crops in.”

Steven asked to speak next, and what he said was a surprise.

“ I want to take up the matter of these newcomers and their farm now. I think this is the right place for it, while we’re discussing plans for the overall village. Because I have another thought on what to do about the sisters’ offer of their stock and the beehives. They’re offering to bring all their worldly goods and move off their farm. But it’s a pretty darn good farm, and it’s closer to us than we may have thought. There’s just a great big hill between us. But in the shape it’s in, with its good barns and its milking parlor and its well-built home, their place is exceptionally well equipped. I’ve been looking at maps of the area, and the sisters’ land actually abuts the park at a point just around the river bend. I’m wondering if the sisters might want to just stay where they are now that they know they have neighbors who can offer help in need. We could even extend the perimeter fence to enclose both places within the village. There are some nice house sites over there facing the river, and some good pasturage, and we can hold the area between for small industry as it develops. We’d leave the fields in place, and clear some more areas of bottomland as needed to add to our cropland. Even with the livestock we have now, we’ll soon need more forage. And they have a regular dairy already set up down there. They can even make cheese.” At this a cheer went up and the level of enthusiasm rose markedly.

Reatha was beaming and Ruthie began to cry openly.

“I was so hating the thought of moving,” Ruthie said. “Our family has had that place for four generations. But we just didn’t want to be alone anymore. Yes, yes. Of course we’ll stay.”

To that end, Steven asked Eldon to first help build another buckboard wagon so the sisters could travel to and from their farm to run the projected school, and then, with the help of Rickard, to begin designing that school.

By this time Moira’s smile had widened until she thought it might crack her face wide open. She set down her agenda and just let people talk, and by the afternoon’s end the village was officially named Falling Spring, Marianne Case had a clothing and “notions” shop on Main Street, Nancy Langston revealed her talent as a weaver and asked for the shop next to Marianne to set up her loom to eventually produce cloth for Marianne’s use. Best of all, Grandpa John Langston had asked for help in clearing the last of the threshed oats from the broad threshing floor in the middle of the large barn, and to get it done before the next Saturday. Then he invited them all to a dance.

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Chapter 10: Combing the Wreckage

Posted in Book One, Worlds End, Seed Mother, tagged , , , , , , on June 27, 2017| Leave a Comment »

World’s End
Book One of The Seed Mother

Chapter Ten: Combing the Wreckage

They did not see Glen’s face again until August, when he rode in casually on a sunny afternoon, looking tired and bringing with him the two pack horses loaded down with badly needed supplies including the promised canning jars and lids, and his dog, near full grown and looking scruffy from the trail. The jars arrived just in time for the tomato harvest, and to make pickles. And soon there would be apple butter.

But they had news of him much sooner. First a pair of teenagers arrived by canoe one morning not even a week after he had left, begging shelter for themselves and others from upriver. Glen had found them and given directions to Falling Spring before moving on, they said.
They brought with them a sad winter’s tale that was to grow all too familiar as the summer wore on.

“We couldn’t get warm, and there wasn’t enough food to go around,” said Tom Langston, a lad of about 16. “We didn’t have wood heat in the house. It was all-electric, so when the electric went off, we had to move out to dad’s shop where there was a wood stove. But there wasn’t room for everyone, and not nearly enough wood. We didn’t turn anyone away, but we just couldn’t keep everybody warm. We cut wood every day that we could get out and butchered all the livestock. We about hunted every squirrel and rabbit out of the brush, but when even more people started coming in, we couldn’t keep up and there just wasn’t ever enough to eat.”

Their neighbors had come seeking help when their food ran out, he said, and they had all tried to pitch in and help however they could. But in all, only five had survived the winter, including their mother, grandfather, and a girl from a neighboring farm. The girl’s parents, a brother, and an aunt had all been starving when they arrived, and none but the girl had ever rallied. They had also lost their own father when the fierce wind blew a limb down on him, and a younger sister had developed an illness they didn’t know how to treat. In all, six had perished. They knew of the museum’s existence but had never been there, and had no idea anyone, or any supplies, might be there.

The boys were both trying to talk at once and Ellen stopped them when the younger boy started to cry. She brought them into the farmhouse and fed them on cornbread and milk and fresh blackberry pie. Then she made Ted, the younger boy, lie down and sleep before he said more about their story. The oldest, though, was nearly frantic to return up the river to fetch the rest of his family.

It was Moira who accompanied Tom on the trip back upriver. Ted wanted to go but was clearly too malnourished and ill. Tom wasn’t in top shape but insisted he was strong enough, and he proved to be. Fortunately, the weather was settled and the current was smooth for the four-mile trip upstream. Not all could be brought down in one trip, so first to be transported was the grandfather, John Langston, who was elderly but spry and who would not leave if it meant being parted from his collection of musical instruments and the family’s personal possessions, mostly clothing and keepsakes. To the family’s surprise, Moira wholeheartedly concurred with Mr. Langston’s decision, and so the instruments – two guitars, a banjo, two fiddles, mountain dulcimer and what appeared to be some kind of button accordion – were packed carefully around him in the first canoe, along with personal items of his including some small tools. He rode in front while Tom paddled and steered from the rear seat. Moira, in the second canoe, hauled more tools, luggage, a store of quilts and blankets, and small family treasures. Tom’s mother and the neighbor girl stayed behind to pack the rest of the family’s belongings and household items that would be useful in their new home. Moira noted that no one wanted to stay behind alone and decided there was probably more of their story than had yet been revealed.

“Now, see that y’ don’t go and spill me, Thomas,” the old man scolded, obviously enjoying himself. “You’ve got over 200 years of history packed in here with y’.”

“And how old would the instruments be, then?” Moira asked innocently, a twinkle in her eye.

The old man gave a whoop of laughter. “You watch y’rself too, Missy,” he said, seeing how tightly packed was Moira’s canoe with the family’s goods.

On the return trip down the river the old man spoke quietly to Moira of the family’s trials and the hardships faced by the young people. It had been hard for them all to endure, and hard for him to watch.

“We old ones expect to face hard times,” he said. “But to start with such a burden, so young…”

“It’s never too early to learn courage,” Moira said. “And I’m afraid they’re going to need all they can find of it in this hard world we’ve inherited.”

He nodded and said, “it’s a different world, for sure,” then was silent.

It was mid-afternoon when they reached the ford below the village, but Ted and Joey had been waiting and watching for them by the stream side. Joey set off at a run to get Steven, who was already jogging down the slope with a wheelbarrow to carry the baggage and instruments.

Steven hurried to help the old man up the road to the farmhouse, calling over his shoulder, “We’ll come back and get the rest. Do what you need to.”

Moira turned to Tom, whose hands were trembling as they unloaded the rest of the gear.

“What say? Are you up for another run today, or should we wait ’til tomorrow morning?”

Tom was already shaking his head. “I can’t … I don’t want to leave them up there alone another night,” he said. “There are things, bad things, out there in the woods, and if we’re not there…”

His breath was getting shorter as he spoke and Moira put a hand on his arm, seeing the signs of panic.

“Whoa, Tom. Bad things. What do you mean?”

“Wild dogs or somethin’, and somethin’ worse, like a pack of pigs, only really vicious, really … crazy. A bunch of them carried off the last of Lettie’s goats yesterday, if you can believe that. It was awful. I think they’d have come after us but they saw we had a gun. We’ve thought for a while they been watchin’ us.”

“Pigs in a pack, stalking people?” Moira said, incredulous. Then she thought of the surly Ossabaw boars who’d run away. It was just possible, she guessed.

“Well, all right. Let’s grab a bite to take with us, and we’ll go and stay the night, and bring the others back tomorrow.”

Tired as they both were, they ate quickly as Ellen packed up supper for the party, then paddled hard, urged on by an increasingly agitated Tom. They arrived back at the Langston farm just at dusk. Tom’s mother Nancy, who had been watching for them from inside the small cabin that had served as workshop and then shelter, ran to meet them, brandishing an electric lantern Moira had left behind on the first trip. As soon as they’d pulled the canoes far up the bank, she beckoned them hurriedly inside and bolted the door behind them. She looked frightened.

“I didn’t know whether to hope you’d come back or hope you stayed away somewhere safe,” she said to Tom. “Those pigs are back. I saw one of them prowling at the edge of the yard a while ago, and now there are more. I don’t know what they’re up to but I don’t think we should go outside anymore tonight.” Tom nodded.

Moira looked around the room. Lettie, the neighbor girl, was sitting in the corner, her arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold, although the night was balmy. Thin to the point of emaciation, with dark hair and pale blue eyes, she looked to be about 16, about the same age as Tom. She looked terrified.

The cabin was a single sizable room about 20 feet on a side, with windows on three sides. On the fourth was a lean-to addition holding a small bathroom, mudroom, and pantry. Along one wall were makeshift bunks and rolled-up bedding. A trestle table occupied the center of the room; a kerosene lamp, fuel for which she must remember to ask about, was lighting the room from the middle of the table. All the windows were open, for there was a fire in the woodstove and a pot of water for coffee was steaming. Moira handed Mrs. Langston the bag of food and soon a hearty, precooked stew from the commercial kitchen at the park was simmering as well.

Behind the door, Moira noted, more luggage and belongings had been packed into bundles. It would be difficult to carry both passengers with all those belongings. Surely the boys, or she and Steven, could make another trip later to retrieve more things from the farm. She wondered how she would broach the subject. Time enough for that later, she decided. She asked if perhaps Mrs. Langston had some spare canning jars, which prodded a nervous laugh from the woman.

“Spare? Just about everything we’ve got is to spare now that we’re getting out of here. We have lots of things that might be useful in a place where we’re safe. Maybe we can send the men back up later. But now I just want to get us all out of here alive.” She turned to the stove and bade them sit at the table, for the food was ready. She began to dip up the savory stew into bowls.

Moira started to say something, she never afterward knew what, when suddenly a dreadful commotion began, with squealing, banging, thumping, and a cacophonous rumble of small sharp hooves scratching and scrambling onto the porch, and large, heavy bodies rooting and bumping into the house. The pigs, it appeared, were attacking the building – at which moment several things happened at once.

Tom raced to the room’s corner and grabbed up a rifle. Lettie put her hands to her face and screamed. Mrs. Langston dropped the ladle into the stew with a cry. A terrible crash made the door shudder and a horrible, huge porcine face heaved itself through the window next to the door, ripping the screen and framing its face in a hideous parody of portraiture. Without thinking, Moira whipped the Ruger from her hip and fired three rounds straight into its mouth. Another scream, this one not human, was cut short as the body crashed backward onto the porch floor and the face disappeared. The roar of the gun inside the small room was deafening but when the noise died, they realized that everything outside had also gone quiet. The silence was soon broken by several soft grunts as the pigs appeared to discuss the situation.

Then they heard the tiptoe of many small hooves as the animals exited the porch and walked down the path into the woods, continuing to grunt among themselves, sounding disappointed. For a long moment, no one moved or spoke. Then Tom stepped to the door and looked out.

“They’ve all gone. ‘Cept for the one, of course. Guess they had all they wanted of us,” he added as he stepped back in and closed the door, grinning at Moira as she re-holstered her gun.

“Well,” Moira said as they looked at her in wonderment. She took a deep, not altogether steady breath. “Let’s eat, shall we?”

In truth, no one was more unnerved than she at the notion that the Ossabaw hogs might be the seed stock that had spawned these violent predators. But it wouldn’t do to scare everyone any more than they already were by speculating aloud. She forced her hand to be calm as she picked up her spoon. The stew was quite good, after all. And Mrs. Langston had fried thin corn cakes on the stove top to go with it. They talked quietly, listening between bites, but the forest remained quiet.

They took turns keeping a watch for the rest of the night but there was no more commotion. When morning came, it took all four of them to drag the massive hog carcass down to the river away from the farmstead. After some discussion, they decided to leave it there for scavengers, whether its own kind or others.

They wedged Tom into the rear of one canoe, bundles packed tightly around him from the stern to where Lettie was sitting up front wrapped in a shawl. Moira and Betty Langston shared the second canoe with a small mountain of other goods and set off, leaving the farm to wait for more harvesters to return later, if ever. The return trip was uneventful, though more than once they had the sense of someone or something watching them from the riverbanks.

When they arrived back at the center, Moira was greeted by another surprise. In her absence, Ellen had moved all her belongings out of the farmhouse and into the small, tidy milliner’s shop at the upper end of the village’s street of shops. Those buildings, meant only for summer programs at the park, were of single-wall construction, unheated and without insulation. But when Moira tried to protest, she got no further than the phrase “demonstration village.”

“Cancel the demonstration, honey. We’re about to become the real thing. And I’m about to be the village herbalist,” Ellen said with a wide smile. “Step into my parlor.” She waved Moira into the back room, where she had installed a tiny wood stove, a desk, an armchair and an iron single bedstead salvaged from items donated to the museum and stored in the barn. In the front room was a countertop ready for a small display and a work table with jars and bottles ready to be filled with salves, ointments, and tinctures. By the door stood two crates containing the shop’s former furnishings.

“It’s logical,” she pointed out over Moira’s protests. “We have acquired an actual family that needs housing and they’ll need nearly every bit of that farmhouse. In fact, there’s nowhere else to put them. With any luck, we’re going to be badly overcrowded very soon, and we’re going to have a lot of these kinds of problems to solve. I thought I might as well get a jump on it before all the spaces were taken.” She was leaning back against the door frame of her new abode, a scarf around her head, forehead damp with perspiration and eyes filled with pride. Then she looked at Moira and her eyes softened.

“You thought I might come up there on the hill with you, didn’t you? Honey, there’s no room for me up there, not yet. That place needs to be gone through and thoroughly repurposed before it can be put to any good use in this world we’re living in now. And then it’ll be a headquarters, not a home. That’s for you to work through and nobody else. After all, you’re in charge. You’re the boss lady, and it needs to stay that way. You better just stay up there so everybody remembers that, because every once in a while you’re gonna have to remind them. I’ll stay down here and keep the locals whipped in line. Between us, we’ll have ’em surrounded,” she said, laughing away the hurt in Moira’s eyes. Her words soon turned out to be prophetic in ways they could not have foreseen.

First, though, the Langstons needed help setting up the farmstead as their family home. Fortunately the house included a “birthing room,” a parlor, a pair of storage rooms, and a large walk-in closet in addition to its four furnished upstairs bedrooms. There were also stairs leading to a finished attic. So the home could be made to house many more residents in a pinch, assuming they were compatible. Tom returned to their former home one more time with two canoes and a very nervous Steven, and brought back all the furniture, bedding and useful items they could carry. With those additions, they were able to furnish rooms for all family members as well as outfit the farmhouse kitchen with a number of useful tools. That week passed quietly as people began finding their own little nests and collecting small items to make theirs a personal space. The main meal of the day continued to be prepared at the kitchen up the hill, gradually emptying the still loaded freezers. And the gardens were beginning to produce vegetables enough for everyone and more, and the canning jars, including more found in a shed and those retrieved from the Langston farm, were filled methodically, the work of many hands. The earth movements had gradually become smaller and less frequent, and life began to take on the semblance of a kind of order.

But no one trusted that it would last, and just as they began to relax, another group showed up, and then another. It seemed that as soon as the little village began taking on what seemed to be a stable form, more changes were required. While some were annoyed, others craved the interruptions, as it left them less room to dwell on the world left behind. And so the days of summer passed.

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Chapter 9: Assembling A Family

Posted in Book One, Worlds End, Seed Mother, tagged , , , , , , on June 26, 2017| Leave a Comment »

 

World’s End
Book One of The Seed Mother

Chapter Nine: Assembling A Family

Glen settled into the rhythm of farm life like he’d been born to it. By the time he’d been there a week, they’d all assessed each other, and found themselves comfortable with the change. The family, for family it was beginning to appear, met each day at the farmhouse for breakfast to discuss plans for the day’s work. With Glen sawing and Joey stacking, they cut a great number of branches from the hollow’s blown-down trees into firewood lengths against the needs of an unknown future. Then Glen and Moira harnessed the gentle Percherons and snaked the larger lengths of oak, ash, walnut, hickory, and pine down the slopes and to the large pole barn next to the mill where the woodright’s raw stock was stored.

While that work was underway, Ellen put herself in charge of the daily farm chores, including garden and pens, and made sure the meals were plentiful and on time. One rainy day she left a meal of sandwiches and potato salad in the cooler for the others and journeyed up the hill to the commercial kitchen in Moira’s fortress home, where she took inventory of all their food stocks, including canned and frozen foods.

The report she delivered along with dinner was comforting at first, but became less so with the telling.

“We’ve got plenty of everything for now,” she said. “In fact, we’re pretty well supplied for the next couple of years with canned vegetables, fruits, and the like. But that’s where it begins to fall apart, because by that point we’ll have to replenish those stocks. Our supply of canning jars is laughably small, not to mention jar lids. I found just two cases of quarts and a single case of pint jars, each with a single set of lids and flats. Without more flats, those lids are not re-useable.”

“That may not be the entire store,” Moira said. “I’ll check the cellar and smokehouse. Helen may have put some away closer at hand to the farmhouse kitchen.”

“I’d have checked them already, but they’re padlocked,” Ellen said, and Moira grimaced.

“My fault. Sorry. What else did you find up there?”

“There’s still half a freezer-full of pre-cooked food, I guess made for the demonstration kitchen. But we’d better make a point of using it up because it’s beginning to show some freezer burn. Also, I saw we’re down to about our last four hundred pounds of baking soda. Whoever placed that order has kept us in biscuits for the next hundred years, provided the flour holds out. Speaking of which,” she paused and looked across to Moira, then at Glen. “If we don’t get that wheat crop out and some corn put in soon, we’ll have no biscuits nor any cornbread next year. In fact, I’m not sure the flour we have will hold out that long. I checked the wheat bins up at the mill, and they’re nearly empty. Have you all thought about what you’ll do on that end? I imagine it’s not much better in the granary.”

Glen cleared his throat and began, “I’d been meaning to mention it, but we’ve been going so hard I put it aside. You know we’ve got those two fields down by the river that are planted to winter wheat and oats. They’ve been grazed some, but there’s plenty left. If we don’t get any more rain this week, I should be able to get in there with a mower. But we don’t have a grain combine. I guess the guys here just harvested by hand.”

Moria nodded. “Scythe and cradle. It’s tedious, but you don’t lose anything that way.

Glen was silent, considering the idea. “The fields look to be about ten acres each. It’d take us two or three days apiece, at least.”

“But we wouldn’t have to wait so long for the ground to dry out, would we?” said Ellen, excitement in her voice. “We could start tomorrow. Unless there’s something more important.”

“No,” Moira said. “If we’re going to do it, and it looks like we are, then the sooner the better. Another couple of weeks and we’re going to be cutting hay.” Glen groaned and Moira grinned. “And you thought you’d already been busting your butt. You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet, buddy.” And she laughed, a carefree laugh such as she hadn’t heard come out of herself since way last year, before Thanksgiving. Before . . . Sudden tears sprang to her eyes, and she heaved herself up out of her chair. “Mornin’s likely to come early,” she said with mock sternness. “I need to get some Zs.”

Dawn saw Glen in the smithy, sharpening the scythe blades he’d found in the garden shed. Nearby, Moira was assembling the sturdy, lightweight cradles that fit on the scythe handles and would catch the grain stalks as they were cut. She had sent Joey to load a roll of baling twine onto a wheelbarrow. She’d made his morning when she issued him his own Barlow knife and assigned him the job of binding the sheaves of wheat as they came off the cradles. Ellen brought plates of biscuits and spicy sausage gravy with two eggs on the side. Moira and Glen each got a mug of steaming coffee, while Joey received a rare treat — hot chocolate. They made short work of the hearty victuals and were headed toward the field almost before Ellen made it back to the farmhouse. She would be along later, she said, after morning house chores were done and dinner put by. The sun was only halfway up the sky when her head popped up over the rail fence and she hopped over the stile. Gone were gingham dress and apron, replaced by overalls a size too large, a loose cotton shirt, and the wide-brimmed straw hat she wore while gardening. Given a brief lesson on the scythe and cradle, she was handed her own tool, assigned a row the width of a scythe’s swing, and left to her own devices. She leaned into the job and slowly acquired the skill.

By noon they had cleared almost an acre and were speeding up as their skills improved. Joey could no longer keep up with their bundles. He had retired to a shady spot and was cutting lengths of cord according to a measure given him by Glen. He delivered them by the handful to each of the cutters as they called for them. His pup, christened Aluicious, Alley for short, was helping.

With the sun overhead and the breeze no longer keeping the sweat dried on their faces, Moira finally called a halt.

“Let’s stop now so we’ll have the strength to do more later,” she said. They combined their last bundles into a single sheaf and headed for the farmhouse. They had just clambered over the stile and stepped into the roadway when suddenly Moira cried out and broke away from them, running up the lane as though a demon were after her. Her three companions looked at her in astonishment, then past her down the road at the museum’s lower gate where a man stumbled toward them, leaning on a wooden staff, a large pack on his back. Moira reached him in time to catch him as he slid to the ground. When the others reached them, they were even more surprised, because Moira and the man were on their knees in each other’s arms sobbing as if their hearts would break. Steven Lane had returned, just as he’d said he would. Strapped to his back on a packboard was his six-year-old daughter, Sarah. She seemed barely alive.

Once they were fed, Steven was relieved of a short version of his story — the town of Alton almost deserted, decimated by a virulent flu virus for which there was no treatment, with the town’s only doctor the first to fall, and Steven’s family dead, except for this one daughter. He slept the clock around and more, rousing himself in time for supper the next night. By that time more than half the wheat was cut and bound into shocks, standing like tousel-headed children in the field. He insisted on joining the work the next day, and by that night they had finished the wheat harvest.

Joey took on the care of little Sarah, who it seemed wasn’t ill, only half-starved, terrified and exhausted. Having a chance to be older than someone brought a new sense of responsibility to the boy, and he seemed to thrive on it, bringing her snacks, drinks, and small meals. He and Alley kept her entertained while the others worked the fields.

The crew thus enhanced made short work of the oat harvest as well, and by early June they were eyeing the hayfields in well-muscled anticipation. But one night at dinner, Glen made a surprising announcement.

“I guess I’ll stay on through the haying season, then,” he said in response to Moira’s description of the effort it would take to get the hay baled, hauled, and stacked in the barn’s massive loft.

“Where else are you gonna go?” Joey asked, laughing.

Glen didn’t answer for a minute, until he looked up from his plate and saw that all eyes were on him. “Well,” he said, as if they should already know what he meant. But he saw that they didn’t. “I was on my way somewhere when I stopped here,” he said.

A chorus of protests rose, and he held up his hand until there was silence. “Yes. I know. I’ve gotten real comfortable here. But even if I was to decide to make this my home, which is real tempting, believe me . . . we still need to know what else is going on out there in the wider world. We don’t need any more surprises of the kind you all had,” he said, looking pointedly at Moira and Ellen.

They had told Glen what happened after he questioned the circled cross brand on two of the four new horses. Moira had filled in Steven as well. They understood what Glen was saying. But the news of his impending departure, even though it made sense, was unnerving. They had come to depend on his strength, his savvy, and his trustworthiness. Steven was still recovering from his hurts, and without Glen they wouldn’t feel as safe anymore. He watched their faces as they each digested the news. Finally, he spoke.

“Look. The main clean-up work here has been accomplished. The feed crops are in, or will be. And you said yourselves there are things we need that someone is going to have to go out and get. That somebody is me. I’m the logical choice. I’ll take a pair of the Morgans for pack horses and bring back canning jars. And jar lids. And a newspaper if I can find one, by God.”

He stopped, the emotion in his voice bringing all their feelings forward. He took a deep breath and continued. “Most of all, we need to know for sure just what kind of a future we’re looking at. We need to know what’s left of this world. We can’t just sit here and let things happen to us. For all we know, this place, its resources, its seed stocks, may be the last best hope for survival, just like Moira has feared. If that’s the case, we’d better know about it. And we’d better get a few more hands to help, if there are any out there that are sane and reliable.”

They sat in silence for a long time, until finally Joey spoke and broke the mood. “See if you can find some more kids while you’re out there,” he said. “Me and Sarah are getting tired of just hanging out with crabby old adults all the time.” They all laughed, and Glen promised to do his best.

The next morning, Glen and Steven spent a companionable pair of hours at the barn and blacksmith shop, selecting the animals best suited for travel, repairing tack, including Glen’s worn saddlebags, and talking. Steven had spoken little thus far of his experiences prior to arriving at Falling Spring. Now, knowing of Glen’s impending departure, he seemed almost eager to share his thoughts.

“You picked out a route yet?” he asked.

“I have to go east first. I’ve got relatives over by Van Buren, or I did. I want to go far enough to get down off the Ozarks Plateau and see how it looks over closer to the fault. So that means at least as far as Poplar Bluff and Crowley’s Ridge. Then I’ll either head back here or follow the ridge south. All depends on what I find.”

Steven sighed. “I’m afraid all you’ll find is heartache, my friend. It’s bound to be worse over there. There may not be anything left at all.”
Glen nodded, his face a grim mask. “Either way, we need to know. You have any plans to venture out again?” Glen asked.

Steven shook his head but was a long time in answering further. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’ve become a coward. I hate to admit it, but I felt a fear out there like I’ve never felt in those woods. I don’t want to go out there again at all. I mean, I was brought up on a farm, but this is different. I got so scared that we’d just die before I got us here, and nobody would ever even know where we fell. And then I thought maybe I’d get here and find her gone, or dead.”

Glen grinned at him. “She wasn’t, though. She’s one tough cookie, our Moira.”

“She is that,” Steven agreed with a chuckle. “Always was, although I’d never have dreamed . . .” he stopped, shaking his head, and made a gesture toward the graves up on the hill, his thumb and forefinger making a gun.

“Hah!” Glen laughed. “I would, after the way she went after me that first night.”

They laughed, then became silent. Finally, Glen spoke.

“You know, it’s funny about that. It was Moira who made me realize what we should be doing, and where I might fit into it all. I mean, it’s so easy to just look at all that’s happened in strictly personal terms, like it’s a disaster that’s only happened to me, or to us.

“But she’s right. What if we’re it — just us and maybe a few others here and there? There’s no way we’ll survive as a species like that. We’ll just live out our little spans and die, and that’ll be it. No more humans. I can’t . . . I can’t accept that. If there’s a way to find some others and bring them here, we might have a chance to begin again the best way we know how. And if there are more of those devils over west, I’d not want the world to end up in their hands, either. There ought’a be some alternative. So that’s my cobbled-up thinking. I think it’s worth a try, at least. What have we got to lose?”

Steven nodded, but his face was drawn as if in pain. “You’re right, of course. But I don’t think I’m going to be any help to you. I honestly don’t think I can ever go out there again.” He sat down on a hay bale and leaned forward, hands cradling his head and elbows resting on his knees. Glen stood for a moment watching, then moved to sit beside him. He pulled Steven to him and cradled him like a child. Steven tried to pull away, but Glen held him fast.

“Now you listen to me. I’ve got brothers of my own, or I did. And I’ll tell you like I would tell them. I don’t think words like ‘coward’ have any place in our lives here. This is all just too damn scary and too hard. We start judging ourselves by anything beyond our ability to just show up, and we’re lost. We are all valuable now, just as we are. We’re all we have. After all,” he said, loosening his grip and poking Steven in the ribs, meeting his anguished look with a wicked grin. “We can’t all just saddle up and ride off into the sunset, er, sunrise. Somebody’s got to stay here and keep the girls company.”

Steven looked shocked, then broke into a whoop of laughter, followed by Glen’s brash cackle. Thus far “the girls” had expressed absolutely no amorous interest in either of them. They’d all been too tired, and too scared, to even think about it.

“Tell you what, fella,” Glen said, “You stay here and tend the home fires while I ride out and see if there are any other fires burning somewhere. Maybe I’ll find us both a girlfriend.” He slapped Steven gently on the shoulder as they both stood, chuckling again.
Steven blew his nose noisily. “I’ll settle for you finding your way home again,” he said.

The new family found the Solstice celebration bittersweet, knowing Glen was leaving soon. Food, laughter, and a fire for jumping made a party of it, and little Sarah had her turn as fire vaulter, but in Steven’s arms, squealing with delight as everyone applauded. Both were recovering quickly from their time in the wilds, at least physically. But Steven’s eyes were shadowed and his smile infrequent, and Sarah was still afraid to sleep alone. Joey, though, was determined to lighten her heart. As the others talked, urging Glen’s return by summer’s end, Joey showed her how to find the Big Dipper in the night sky.

The morning of July first, Glen was saddled and underway astride his four-legged equine pal Willy, leading a pair of pack horses lightly loaded with food and camping gear. One of the collie pups, which Glen had taken to calling José, decided to go along and would not be denied. After sending the wagging adolescent back twice, Glen threw up his hands and relented.

“I guess we need somebody to watch out for us,” he called back from the old road that snaked back north along the river. He was standing in his stirrups to wave at his assembled family who watched him from the gate. As the little caravan reached the bend in the road, all eyes turned aside, following local superstition. Watching someone as they disappeared out of sight cursed the journey, or so it was said. Besides, it was time to get back to work.

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Chapter Six: The Devil in the Details

Posted in Book One, Worlds End, Seed Mother, tagged , , , , , , on May 23, 2017| Leave a Comment »

World’s End

Book One of The Seed Mother

Chapter Six: The Devil in the Details

Moira was sprawled atop a bluff in the sunlight, gathering greens. As the weather warmed and the awful winds continued to subside, there was occasionally a sunny day. She meant to make the most of this one. She was foraging for early wild edibles, the kind from which the traditional Ozarks “spring tonic” was made. High above the river bottom beyond the park, she had bet the herbs would take advantage of every second of sunlight, and she was right. She’d left Sheba behind along with her band of rowdy half-grown pups, as the whole pack was too hard to manage and still get anything done. They so loved a romp, and she’d locked them all outside early this morning while she finished greenhouse chores. Those had to be meticulously done, as she’d replaced the beds of overgrown lettuce with flats of newly seeded garden vegetables that she hoped to transplant soon to the farmstead garden down the hill. The lettuces were now being enjoyed by the few surviving chickens and the four-legged livestock. But she wanted something fresh for herself.

She was stretched almost to her full length reaching to seize a prize, a clump of tender fiddleheads, the early shoots of the bracken fern. She hooked her foot around a small sapling to keep from going over the edge. She’d already collected salad makings of rocket and sheepshire. These tender but sturdy shoots that nestled in a sheltered, sun-washed pocket in the rocks would add bulk as well as vitamins to her nutrient-starved diet. Greenhouse fare had kept her going but it was stronger medicine she was after now. She would add the coiled shoots to another belt pack that already contained violets in leaf and flower and a bag of redbud blossoms.

She was humming to herself but stopped when she thought she heard a noise, a metered clopping sound almost like hoof beats coming from far up the old road. The morning mist still hung over the dirt track that ran along the base of the bluff and on toward the lower museum gate. Lightly traveled in previous years and untraveled by humans at all since the first quake, the track was now weed-grown and dim, the few ruts marked by standing water from last night’s rain. Probably another stray horse looking for a herd to join, she thought. She’d been taking in strays of all kinds in the past months, all of them the four-legged kind except for a couple of chickens.

Here next to the river the awful winds of the past winter had not created so much havoc; fewer trees were down, and the road was still passable for as far as she could see. She’d not come by road or by horseback but had hiked up and over the ridge separating Pigeon Hollow, out of which Falling Spring flowed, from the Eleven Point River valley and the stream into which the spring’s waters emptied. The old-timers’ spring tonic of wild potherbs to augment a diet of canned goods and lettuce past its prime had provided the excuse for some brisk exercise and a welcome change of scene.

Perhaps next week, if the good weather held, she might venture out this way in her truck to see if she could reach a main road. She was not hopeful. For more than three months the radio and TV had remained silent, and nothing but dead air and static had answered her calls on Steven’s ham-radio set. Steven had not returned to the museum as he’d promised, nor had anyone else appeared. She wondered if anyone within traveling distance was still alive. If the whole ham radio operator network was out, it could only mean that the disaster was as widespread as she feared and of catastrophic proportions. She knew that base stations had to be pointed in the right direction to pick up another base station’s signal. But she should be picking up something off satellite, unless . . . unless the planet had actually moved from the plane of the ecliptic, had somehow rolled partway over, or done something else equally unimaginable.

With one of the tiny computers she’d found a set of instructions to calibrate the unit to find a satellite, but that would only give her a library, not a source of current events, so she hadn’t tried it. More sorting and unpacking had revealed more parts of Rudy’s “stash,” some still mysterious and some just humorous. A small, square package had poured forth dozens of the storage units, half flash cards and half jump drives, some empty and others full of unknown information. One large tube had contained a mile or more of mirror-finish mylar film. Another, fortunately opened early in the search, revealed, of all things, two seedling coffee trees. They must have thought they were stocking the Ark, she thought with a grim chuckle.

“They should have thought to send two of me,” she muttered.

She still had no way of knowing what was happening in the world outside. She supposed if the world were ending, more evidence would appear soon. But what she’d seen so far wasn’t all that horrific. True, there had been those weeks of black, roiling clouds, and that terrible wind that seemed to go on forever, and there was a haze in the sky night and day now. Moreover the April weather didn’t seem quite as warm as April should be. But the sun was out, and things were up and growing. So hope had not entirely faded.

On the other hand, she was in the middle of a continent, well-protected from what had been predicted as the worst of possibilities. And if the damage and destruction was as bad and as widespread as she imagined from those last days of television reception, then rescue could still be weeks or even months away.  Her thoughts roamed far afield as she snapped off the fiddleheads and stuffed them in her pouch,

She heard the measured clopping sound again, but the wind came up and it went away. She shook her head. Now it sounded more like a couple of horses. Or cows. She wouldn’t be surprised. As the winds had calmed, stray domestic animals had begun wandering in from who knows where, seeking herd or master. At first she had hoped some human would also come wandering in – perhaps a Forest Service worker or game warden, even a neighboring farmer in search of his cows. But so far it hadn’t happened. She continued to put out hay for the cows and horses and now also for an old ewe with her pair of lambs who had taken up residence. She still threw a little corn to the chickens, who wandered at will. The cattle herd had actually increased to about a dozen with the assortment of beef and dairy cows who’d come wandering in and settled with her loyal brood, and she was up to about a dozen horses. She had seen no sign of the pigs.

Sometime this spring, if the weather held, she would have to begin putting in crops, not just to feed herself but to keep the livestock through the winter to come. Fortunately, the grass hay from the museum-owned fields along the river had been put up in large round bales wrapped in plastic and stored out of sight of the museum’s public areas, so she would have a cushion against dry weather and her inexperience. She rejoiced every day that among her many purchases last autumn had been fresh stocks of grains and grass seed for the seed vaults. On her mind at the time had been the potential need for extra against drought, bad weather, or other potential causes of crop failure. Though she hadn’t at the time known a cataclysm was coming, she’d paid particular attention to laying in new varieties of open-pollinated heirloom vegetable seed for the kitchen garden and traditional grasses, corns, and legumes for the fields.

As she waited for the expected cows to show themselves, she thought it unfortunate none of the animals in her care had opposable thumbs, for she could use the help. In a sheltered spot outside the greenhouse, more varieties of fruit trees delivered late last fall still awaited transplanting to their new homes around the compound – a daunting task for one woman, even if it were the only work to be done. But it was difficult to even imagine the effort it might take to provide food for the entire menagerie — it seemed overwhelming, even with the tools at hand, including horse-drawn rakes, plows, and harrows, and the horses to pull them. In truth, there was only one team really trained to pull, and another halfway there. Most of the rest were an unknown quantity. If only she had a few more pairs of hands, she thought, the work would seem less impossible. Even the gathering of wild and domestic herbs for food and medicine sometimes seemed futile. But she had no one else yet to rely on, and she must do everything she could to assure her own survival.

In these past months, left too long alone with her thoughts, she had come to see the importance of the resources in her care in a different light. She’d come to understand just how critical they might be for humans who intended to survive into the future. Nowhere within several hundred miles existed such seed stocks. The  Botanical Gardens in St. Louis, if they survived, would be one possible source, although their stores would have been managed with more attention to variety than to quantity. And there was the Seed Savers project in Iowa. Closer by, there had been a little place in Brixey, over in Ozark County. If they had survived.

Without open-pollinated seeds, even if people survived the obvious ravages of climate chaos, they would not be able to grow anything approaching an adequate supply of food beyond one or two seasons. When hybrid varieties began to revert to their parent varieties, production of edible foods would diminish dramatically. Of course, not all hybrids reverted and some isolated organic or traditional farmers here and there would have been saving their own favorite vegetables and grains.

But how many of them had survived? And how many mouths could they feed while trying to grow out supplies of extra seed for themselves and others? Given the possibility that no more than a few were still around, she observed, the whole question might be moot. Either way, it was just too soon to tell. And without information coming from beyond this valley, she might not know for a long time. She sat up and pulled herself back from the edge, her thoughts focused too much on the larger situation to pay attention to fiddleheads or to keeping her balance on this high ledge.

She heaved a great sigh and stretched out on her side, facing the roadway. Better to gather herbs, catch a few fish, do what she could each day, and let the Great Mother see to the rest. No doubt She had enough on Her hands these days seeing to Her many creatures and Her own dear self without attending to the worries of one stray, carping daughter whose needs for food and shelter were so amply met. Besides, this lonely daughter had been down this particular road too many times already. She placed her palm flat to the earth, in a spontaneous gesture of reverent thanks for the recently calmer days, and started packing up her bounty, getting ready for the long hike home.

The hoof-beat sounds continued to draw nearer. She peered in the direction of the sound but couldn’t see any movement. Cows? No. Horses. Definitely horses, and several of them. It was probably the band of young Morgans she’d released a few months back. Half-wild, they had come and gone frequently from the farm compound in past weeks, torn between exploring and seeking a ready supper. Lately they had been accompanied by another young equine, a slim-withered orphaned horse colt who loped along behind the sturdy Morgans, but with a distinctive gait, possibly a  Foxtrotter.

She stood up to see better. Suddenly her hand flew to her mouth and she uttered a strangled cry. It was not only hoof beats she was hearing, she realized. She would almost swear she heard voices, as well. She drew a breath, preparing to shout. But then, almost against her will, her hand moved to cover her mouth tightly, stifling any call she might have made. She had no idea who was coming, she told herself fiercely, as her mind warred with itself. It could be salvation; it could be scoundrels. Better to find out, she decided, before whoever it was spotted her. She lowered her body into a crouch and moved along the bluff’s edge to where there was a gap in the greenery and she could see the roadway clearly for some distance without being seen.

At first she was so relieved she wanted to cry. The mounted figure that appeared round the bend in the road, except for his curly red beard, was dressed military-style, outfitted in what appeared to be full desert camo, with a carbine slung over his shoulder. Instead of military gear for his sturdy palomino horse, however, the horse bore a standard Western saddle, complete with lariat, saddlebags, and a large bedroll. Of course, rescuers would use whatever was available, she reasoned. But still she did not reveal herself .

“Paranoid,” she whispered to herself.

Then the second man hove into view and she was glad she’d stayed put on her sheltered perch. He also was outfitted in quasi-military garb, but had added an outlandish headdress of vivid hue. He was still too far away to see exactly what his headgear was made of, but it was not, she was certain, military issue. This man was smaller than the one who preceded him and narrower in the shoulders. He, too, sported a full beard, though his was dark and grizzled. On the roan horse’s rump, behind the saddlebags and bedroll, was what looked like a duffel bag packed very full. It bobbed from side to side as the horse picked its way delicately along the rutted trail.

The third man was hardly a man at all, thin to the point of scrawniness and with only a trace of beard. His headgear, a felt hat with much ornamentation, was no less unusual than that of the man who preceded him, and his military-style clothing was ill-fitting and torn. The gear he carried seemed an awkward assortment of boxes and bags roped together. His horse, however, was a beauty, a tall, high-stepping chestnut-colored Tennessee walking horse. Unfortunately the horse and rider appeared to be ill-matched in more than looks. As the horse rounded the bend and came up on its fellows, it shied at a low branch waving in the breeze and started sidestepping, going off the trail and turning in a full circle before resuming its place in line. The youthful rider struggled to gain control and unleashed a torrent of oaths, while the leader of the group turned to watch.

“You wanted that beast so bad, Davy,” the man called. “Now get a hold on him or I’ll give him to someone who can.”

The young man snarled a reply, which proved a mistake. Before he could get himself firmly seated, the lead rider dug his heels into the palomino’s flanks and was on the boy. The palomino whirled to ram its body sidelong into the taller horse as the red-bearded man stood in his stirrups to reach the youth with his right arm. The quirt in his hand sliced through the air with a hiss to lash at the boy’s face. The blow was blocked by the boy’s raised clenched fists as he struggled with the reins. A trail of crimson marked its passage across the backs of his ungloved hands and in a cut on his cheek, but he made no outcry.

“That tongue of yours is going to get you killed someday, Davy, if I don’t do it first,” the red-bearded man snarled, dug his heels into the palomino’s sides again, and resumed his place at the head of the column.

Almost unnoticed in the fray, a fourth man came into view on the trail, this one the biggest of all, wide-shouldered and black-bearded, his camouflage shirt ripped at the sides and laced together, the sleeves cut out to reveal a grimy white T-shirt beneath. Wherever they’d acquired their military dress, there had apparently been none large enough to fit him. The roughly-fitted shirt was held in place at the shoulders by the straps of bib overalls. Only the tips of his cob-soled boots fit into his stirrups, making the massive man appear to be riding on tip-toe. This last man held the reins of his sad-faced gray horse with one hand, while the other reached backward to pull the lead rope of another horse, this one apparently the group’s pack animal.

But no. Again Moira’s hand had to stifle a cry. There was a woman on the horse but she was not a member of the company; that was certain. Her head was bowed, her body swayed as though she could barely keep herself from falling, and her hands were bound by a rope that passed around her middle, holding her arms tight against her sides. Her clothing was ragged and in disarray. Tied to the cantle of her mount was yet another rope, this one towing a small boy, tied at the wrists, who couldn’t have been more than ten years old. He stumbled along wearily at the rear of the column. Moira’s hands clenched at the ugliness before her. Whoever these men were, they were no rescuers. They were bandits, perhaps, or worse. Surely she must do something, but what?

The red-bearded leader had passed directly below the outcrop where she lay concealed when he held up his hand, signaling a halt. The trail, narrow to that point as it threaded its way through the forest, opened onto a small meadow that extended several hundred feet to another bend in the road. Beyond that bend and another, little more than a mile away, was the lower entrance to the museum. Could this be the group’s destination? Moira leaned forward, listening intently.

“Let’s take a rest here, brethren,” Redbeard said. “I need another look at the map.” It was easy to see who called the shots in this group.

The second rider, whom she dubbed “Graybeard,” was alongside the first in a flash, swinging down from his horse before the leader could dismount and hurrying to hold the palomino’s bridle while the red-bearded man stepped to the ground and retrieved a much-folded document from his saddlebags.

The youth, whom Moira was already beginning to think of as “No-beard,” stopped some little distance away, dismounted, and occupied himself in tying the reins of his recalcitrant beast to a sturdy low-hanging tree limb. The animal uttered a high whinny, sidled away and gave the boy a wide-eyed look. He may or may not have been a decent rider, but the horse wasn’t used to him, and obviously didn’t like what he’d seen of the young man so far.

The fourth man, who might as well be Blackbeard, Moira decided, reined in his horse behind the other two and dismounted quickly, looping his horse’s reins over a branch before hauling in the lead rope on the woman’s horse. As she came alongside, he reached up, grabbed her around the waist, and dropped her unceremoniously. As her feet hit the ground she nearly fell but he put out an arm to steady her.

He pointed to a nearby fallen log where she might sit. “Rest while you can, witch woman. We’ll soon be to this mill storehouse, or whatever it is, and you’ll have plenty to do.”

She struggled with her bonds as he reached to free the boy’s rope from the saddle. The boy was hanging back, the rope still taut between his hands and the saddle. “Can you at least untie my hands so I can see to my needs?” she asked, her voice hard and bitter. “It’s not like I’d have anywhere to run to out here.”

The man grinned. “I don’t think you’ll run, because I won’t have to chase you.” He jerked on the rope tied to the boy’s wrists, causing the youth to fall. “You know this little devil’s mite wouldn’t live a minute past your going, don’t you?” He knew the answer to his question. “I wouldn’t come after you. I’d just cut his ugly little throat. Want to try me and see?” He gave the rope another jerk, and the boy, who was trying to regain his feet, fell forward again, this time landing with his chin in the dust. The woman struggled to reach the boy but Blackbeard kept hold of the rope around her waist and pulled her to him instead, forcing her backside against his belly as he bent his knees, then straightened, rubbing himself up against her. “Besides, witch, it’s your turn to keep me warm tonight. You wouldn’t want to miss that, would you?” The woman uttered an oath and continued to struggle until he laughed and cuffed her. “Hold still, and I’ll free your hands. You see to yourself and the boy, and I’ll watch.” He laughed again, a low guttural sound.

Moira recoiled from the scene, knowing she should do something to help the woman. But any effort of hers, weaponless, would serve for nothing except to place herself in equal danger. She kept silent and forced herself to watch as the woman, still bound around the arms by the looped rope, helped the boy to his feet and led him to some bushes where they could at least have the illusion of privacy. First she stood between the boy and his captors, her back to him, so he could relieve himself. Then they did turnabout, suggesting they’d been forced to suffer this solution more than once. Moira shifted her attention to Redbeard, who was standing almost directly beneath her, showing Graybeard something on the unfolded sheet of paper. He appeared to be studying a much-used topographical map.

“It should be right up this next hollow here, where it shows the road leaving the river and going up,” Redbeard said, pointing to the spot on the map and then to the river’s bend.

“How do you know it’s the right road?” Graybeard asked, his voice a tenor whine. “I don’t see any museum marked on there.”

“That’s because it’s an old map, doofus,” Redbeard returned, his tone sarcastic. “What it does show, however, is Falling Spring, right there smack in that hollow. That’s where the museum is. My cousin Ed, God rest his pitiful soul, told me about the place just last year. Said they had every tool you could imagine from the pioneer days. And all the old breeds of stock. And seeds out the ass. We find that place and our worries are over. We can set up our own group over here, go out and find us a few more servants for the Lord’s chosen,” he said, gesturing toward the woman and the boy, “and live like the kings of old, Randall.”

“I don’t think Father Lowell will like that, John,” Graybeard said. “He wanted you to just come over here and bring back tools and whatever scavenge you could find. I don’t think he meant for the Chosen to be putting up new settlements out here in these woods. Besides, it’s damn spooky down here in all these twisty little hollows. I don’t like it.”

“Jeezy-Crow, Randall,” the redbearded man said between his teeth, exasperation making his face red, too. “Every damn thing spooks you. It’s about all I can take, having to travel clear across country just to find what we need, and provide leadership, and all the while having to drag this bunch of sissies and crybabies along. Next time, just stay home,” Redbeard said. He turned to his saddlebag and re-packed the map. “Now let’s get these horses watered and get on our way. We should be able to make the place before night. Maybe we’ll surprise somebody and help ourselves to their supper, huh?” He laughed, slapped the graybearded man on the back, hard, and walked a few feet away before unzipping his fly and urinating on a tree. He laughed again when he saw the woman and child staring at him in disgust. “Want some, witchwoman? You’ll have to wait. It’s Becker’s turn tonight.” All the men guffawed at this, even Davy, snorting a laugh through his acne-scarred nose as he tried awkwardly to remount the uncooperative horse.

Moira had seen enough. Behind the bluff’s edge, the ground dropped away into a shallow depression that led away south over the ridge to Pigeon Hollow. With luck and a little stealth, she could make her way back unseen. Falling Spring was these marauders’ target, she realized, and she didn’t know what to do. First, though, she must get away without being discovered. She crouched lower behind the outcropping and moved silently away. A dozen steps and she would be invisible from the trail. But one of those steps dislodged a rock. The men stopped. A stone’s throw away from Moira, a squirrel ran up a tree and began chattering an alarm. The men laughed, assuming it was they who were being alarming. They turned off the road and headed down toward the river. They did not see the silent woman above them as she slipped away from the bluff’s edge and out of sight. Not just she and their prisoners, but the museum, and perhaps the future itself, were in dire peril. She had to stop them. But how?

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Chapter Four: Beyond Reach

Posted in Book One, Worlds End, Seed Mother, tagged , , , , , , on April 28, 2017| 2 Comments »

“World’s End”

Book One of The Seed Mother

Chapter Four: Beyond Reach

 

The following Friday:

As she had been doing frequently since Sunday, Moira was on the satellite phone talking, sometimes to Rudy and sometimes to others unknown, who offered updates and chilling fragments of news from afar, most of it as stomach-churning as the increasingly bitter weather and the smaller but more frequent earth tremors. They all agreed the situation was nowhere near over.

The worst scenario to contemplate was the growing conviction that the caldera, the giant magma uplift below Yellowstone, was likely getting ready to blow its top, an event that had happened more than once, but never within human experience. If that were to happen, the ash cloud would likely turn everything for a thousand miles south and east into an ash-covered desert. For all their fear about it, mentions were brief and soon passed over. It simply didn’t bear thinking about. If that were actually to happen as they feared, most of her partners in this venture would be dead. And the rest, including her, were likely to be, as she was, scrambling to save what was left of the habitable world. She had thought she was being relatively calm as she worked away through the warehouse cleanup, celebrating the things she had thought to stock up on and lamenting the things she hadn’t thought of. For instance, in terms of future defense, although there were four guns on the property, there was only one box of shells each for the pistols, a handful or two for the 12-gauge shotgun, and barely two boxes for the handiest, a .410 gauge varmint gun. That collection did not an armory make. And this morning, when she was walking through the garden area and found a withered luffa fruit with a full seed cavity hanging in a sheltered spot in the fence, she burst into tears. How in God’s name did one prepare for losing Everything.

She’d been telling herself it might not be so bad. Things could settle down and regain some semblance of order. And then last night she had a dream.

In the dream the Visitors Center was instead a large cavern of soft, chalky rock with hastily hollowed out rooms where things were stored haphazardly. Staff members were coming to her, complaining that their salary checks had not arrived. She tried to explain to them that the chaos as a result of the crisis would delay things, but she finally relented and said she would issue the checks herself. She went into an adjoining space where the computers were kept, but found the printers were glazed over with a chalky residue left by seeping water and were becoming part of the rock, and there was no paper on the rude shelf where supplies were kept. When she attempted to turn on a monitor, there was no power, and then the keyboard before her began to disintegrate as she touched it and she was left with only little eroding cubes that had been the keys.

When she awoke, short of breath and heart pounding, she called Rudy, but got one of his staff, who told her the D.C. offices were being shut down due to flooding that was backing up from the Chesapeake Bay into the Potomac. Large portions of the capital were under an evacuation order, including much of the downtown area of government offices. Rudy, he said, was up in one of the mountain strongholds that had been prepared for a possible nuclear attack, making space for equipment storage and organizing that end of the move. The young man, an attache´, was alone in his office, manning the phones, he told her, while dumping computer files into long-term storage. Everyone else was out in front of their building, filling sandbags and trying to hold the water back until all the files were copied and put somewhere safe. “Don’t worry,” he said in a tone that said his words were empty. “We’ll whip this.” She wished him the best and rang off before her voice betrayed her.

After a simple breakfast, she was still nowhere near able to form a plan for the day. Since bone weary was not the proper attitude for starting the day, it must be time for a break, she decided. Throwing on a barn coat, she headed out the north doors and across the parking lot toward the pine thicket. She stood awhile in the lee of the great signpost, soaking up the weak winter sun and inhaling the crisp fragrances of winter. Only a dusting of snow had fallen in the night and it was already somewhat bird-tracked. She threw down some crumbs from breakfast and laughed as the little snowbirds came right up to within touching distance in search of a morsel or two.

Then, looking further, she notice another little bird that remained still. It had apparently fallen from a branch and landed upright, but it was dead. It might have been literally scared to death. The realization struck her straight to the heart, and she gasped at the pain of it and fell to her knees. All in that moment, the truth came rushing in. No matter how secure she might be in this little hidden spot, she was surrounded by the likely deaths of thousands, with millions more facing the same fate all over the globe. In a vision that pictured the earth mother brushing parasites off her belly, she saw among them her family, friends and colleagues, and uncounted strangers she would never know. She mourned them all, crying openly, her sobs turning to keening, the sound one reserves only for the loss of loved ones.

Some time later, when she became cognizant of how stiff and cold she was becoming, she dipped her mittens in the snow and washed her face, stood upright, and headed back to the only home she still had.

She spent the balance of that day in a peculiar agitation, unable to work long at any single chore, not from lack of energy but from an odd inability to think more than one step ahead. After heating her coffee three times in the microwave without ever drinking any of it, she finally sat her self down on the daybed in her tiny apartment and decided to see if she could clear her thinking and calm her mind, her canine companion snuggled tight against her. Within minutes, she fell into a sound sleep and awoke two hours later, refreshed. She would have to work on being able to tell the difference between agitation and exhaustion, she decided. But she’d rather be talking to Rudy. A little after 10 p.m., he called. He sounded as exhausted as she had been, but she drew a laugh from him when she recounted the events of her dream.

“That’s nearly how it is,” he said. “My recurring dream is where I’m riding in an old 1960s-era city bus touring San Francisco. It’s all very beautiful, but when we get to the top, at Coit Tower, we go right through the parking lot, through the fence, and off the cliff.”

“That sounds pretty terrible,” she said.

“That’s not even the scary part,” he said with a wry chuckle. “We never reach the bottom. But I don’t wake up, I just keep falling and falling. And that, too, is pretty much how it is when I’m awake.”

“I get that. I know I’m nowhere near getting the worst of it.”

“Well, kiddo, that was the idea. You’re one of our success stories, so far.”

“Not all of the outposts are faring as well,” she asked.

“You could say that,” he said, and then hesitated.

“I did say that. So tell me.”

“Well, I’m sure our guy in Idaho has some complaints, if there’s anything left of him by now. And we haven’t heard a peep from anybody in California’s coastal range or southern Nevada. Of course, there have been some land movements out there, particularly along the southern end of the San Andreas fault. Satellite photos show the present north end of Baja’s Gulf of California as being just below San Diego. And San Francisco bay is larger by half. Not as much damage as I would have expected, actually. Of course, that may be part of that long slow fall in my dream. There is some steady subsidence in the basin that includes Los Angeles. But no huge tremors. So part of the infrastructure is holding, and people are starting to head out of areas like that in a more or less orderly fashion. Again, there’s not as much panic as I would have predicted. A little like Moses into the wilderness. But of course we haven’t told them everything we know.”

She shook her head. Part of her wanted more details, the rest had had enough. But he wasn’t through.

“The Russians sent up a rocket this morning to the space station. We offered to bring them all home, but all three elected to stay, even knowing this may be the last ship to go up. The Russians are seeing worse damage than we are, and we don’t have another landing pad that’s any more secure. So we shipped them all the food and supplies the rocket would hold. We had already transferred archival files of everything we could think of up to them. You’ve got codes and access links coming to you now, so you can call them for odd bits of info. They’ll be there as long as … well, as long as they last.”

Moira was silent for a while, trying not to betray another surge of sorrow and grief she felt for these brave men and women. Finally, Rudy added, “I know how you feel. But the truth is, we’re all in the same boat. They may be the farthest away, but right now they’re safer than we are. Listen, kid, I gotta go. There’s a bunch more info coming to you tonight on the secure channel. Get on there and get it downloaded. We don’t know how long these links will hold. Better to plan for the worst.”

“Expect the unexpected,” she said, smiling. “That’s become my motto. Thanks, amigo. Hope to hear from you again soon.”

“I’ll do my best. Hang tight.” The silence after he disconnected was deeper than any she’d felt so far.. Whatever happened, it was going to be a long, cold winter.

Meanwhile, given the pitfalls of dwelling on the future, staying in the present tense seemed a more useful if not more pleasant option. As she applied herself again to clearing the chaos in the warehouse, at times the work felt almost like a meditation. This box goes here, that one there, this barrel of axle grease to the toolroom, that pallet of baking soda to maintenance, and so on in a quiet, steady rhythm.

A different strategy was needed for the mystery packages, more of which were finding their way, piece by piece, onto the shelves in the conference room. Each contained a surprise, and not all were easily identifiable. A cataloging system and copious notes had to be created as she worked out what each item might be, and what it might be for.

The multiple thin tablets and their keyboards, most of them vacuum sealed, were easy. Less obvious, for instance, was the long, tubular package of fine metal screening that appeared to be associated with a box of tightly packaged chemicals and another of instruction manuals. By examining the supplies as a group, she soon deduced their function – it was an easily assembled apparatus for making paper from local natural sources of fiber. Another set of boxes contained sets of laboratory equipment for a wide variety of uses related to processing available materials into useable products that might no longer be available from the outside. God bless them profusely for those items alone – tools she’d never have thought of until it was too late. Those went straight to the labrynthian storage vaults.

Other parcels she opened just in time, as they contained more live samples of plants that either were not native to this part of the world – tiny saplings that would grow coffee, tea and a variety of citrus fruits – or plants that were difficult or impossible to propagate from seed. She doubted she would be able to keep the pair of cacao trees alive without severe pruning, for they would undoubtedly grow too tall for the greenhouse. But she thought the vanilla orchids might be happy in the warmest part of the warm room. Several other live specimens were medicinal in nature and might save lives if pharmaceuticals were no longer available. Most precious of these, she thought, were the delicate Asian sweet gums, the Chinese herbs, and the tiny seeds of opium poppies. They had delivered the nearest things to a living pharmacy as one could imagine.

These precious green gifts presented a challenge, though, for they filled the greenhouse past its normal capacity. Fear of more destructive tremors kept her from adding more shelves, so she was forced to transfer some of the plantings, particularly the tree saplings, into tubs that could be rolled on casters to the glassed-in, light-filled lobby of the Center. All would be safe so long as the generator under the mill dam held and kept the heat pumps running. If that went, life would be far less comfortable in a number of ways that didn’t bear thinking about. Best to focus on one potential calamity at a time, she thought. There were many other alternatives that might well end in unthinkable consequences.

As the days grew closer to when the passing “rogue planet” reached its nearest point to the earth, time seemed to slow until she could only work in small segments punctuated either by the ring of the satellite phone or a sudden shudder as another tremor struck. And she noted more than once that she had just stopped in the middle of a task to be silent and listen. The sense of impending doom became more and more overwhelming. And every day the news worsened.

An outpost in the southern Appalachians suddenly went silent, and then one in Nevada and another in the Dakotas. From the still active outposts in the California Sierras and the White Mountains of New Hampshire, she learned that sea levels, which had already reached epic heights from the continuing effects of climate change, were not the only danger to the coasts. Far worse had become the tidal changes caused by the warring effects of the earth’s own moon and the approaching massive space rock, which threw the normal rhythm of the tides into an unpredictable arrhythmia that was making any travel by sea treacherous and unwise. Out in the travel lanes were hundreds, perhaps thousands of freighters and tankers stranded because they could not safely approach the coasts. Coastal residents to the east had mostly been evacuated inland, while populations along the northern Pacific coast were being urged to head north toward Canada or east toward Colorado, but not, definitely not northeast. Public  media continued their assurances that the worst would soon be over. That was one of the possible outcomes, Rudy said. Most of the others were too horrific to consider, and hardly the kind of news to mention to an already terrified populace.

On the private satellite network they shared, more reporting stations continued to go silent, at first intermittently and then just gone. Rudy, speaking from his mountain stronghold in the Poconos, cautioned her with every call that it could be his last. And then one day it was, with less than six hours remaining before the dark planet was to reach its closest pass. She was sure of the time, because they were talking when the interruption occurred. He was delivering more bad news.

“We’re moving everyone we can out of the immediate area of the caldera and sending them north into Canada,” he said, referring again to the ominous signs that the lava dome under southeastern Wyoming might be awakening. “Yellowstone is closed and everyone evacuated, as are all the wilderness areas nearby. Canada is cooperating by expanding their border crossings at Vancouver, Glacier-Waterton and on east to the Badlands.

“It’s frustrating, because for all our efforts, there is still so damned little we can do. If we can get past the next 24 hours with little or no catastrophic events, I’ll be able to breathe again,” he said, with a laugh that had no mirth in it. “Hell, I might even be able to give up my antacids.” She was beginning to offer sympathies for his worries that far outreached hers, when he interrupted, his voice strained.

“Ah, shit. There it goes. I gotta go, kid. You be…” And he was gone. Just like that. And so was the network. A few electronic mutters, then nothing. She stood for a long moment, looking at the phone, stunned. She glanced up at the calendar. It was Dec. 21, just hours before the solstice.

All of a sudden, as though she’d received a strong elbow to the ribs, she began to move, first to the warehouse entrance, where she donned her stout farm coat and boots, and then out the door and down the hill at a run, her dog at her heels. How long would it take the effects of what had to be the worst – the disastrous explosion of the caldera – to reach this sheltered hollow? A few precious hours at most. The animals must have food and water available. The greenhouse and now the windows in the lobby must be reinforced. And she must get herself and her dog to the safest place she could find.

At the barn, she threw open all the stall doors, threw down whole bales of hay and filled all the containers she could find with water. She threw grain around wildly, hoping by doing so that no one would overeat but everyone could find something. She released the chickens and the pigs. And then she was heading back up the hill calling over her shoulder, “Good luck, everybody. I’ll see you when I can.”. As she ran, she began to hear an odd creaking and groaning in deep bass tones, and the ground began an eerie rhythmic shudder, as if it were crawling. She reached the top and threw herself in the warehouse door. She hadn’t imagined the crawling sensation. Everything that wasn’t firmly anchored was moving as if alive.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply until she caught her breath. No point in waiting for things to return to normal. Normal was gone, as was the world she knew. Time to prepare for the world to come. She turned toward the lobby’s tall windows and strode forward into her uncertain future, her dog beside her, a roll of duct tape in each hand.

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